‘You’re ill,’ he said. ‘You should be in a hospital.’
‘If there’s a cure for me, I’ll find it here by the divine power that preserved Cuthbert’s flesh after death.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Richard whispered.
Hero had stopped translating. A chill settled on his body. ‘If the saint’s relics can cure all ills, you should be in Durham where his body lies.’
Cuthbert gave another choking cough and swallowed a bolus of mucus. ‘My community expelled me.’
Hero fingered his throat. He’d heard that racked coughing before.
‘Light your lamp. We brought some gifts for you. They include oil.’
Cuthbert blew life into the coals and kindled a twist of straw. The flames singed his hands as he set the taper to the wick, but he didn’t flinch. Shadows crept up the walls. Cuthbert set down the lamp and squatted with his cowled head downcast. Hero picked up the light.
‘Show us your face.’
‘I’d rather spare you the sight.’
‘I won’t be shocked. I know what ails you.’
Cuthbert slowly raised his head. Hero drew a sharp intake of breath. The hermit’s eyes looked out from behind a carapace of scales and nodules. Half his nose had rotted away, corrupted by an infection he couldn’t even feel.
‘A leper!’ Richard shouted, jumping up. ‘We’ve been sitting with a leper.’ He backed out of the cave so violently that he tore the windbreak from its mounts.
Cuthbert’s anguished eyes stared out at Hero. ‘Aren’t you frightened?’
‘I was a student of medicine. I’ve visited leper hospitals.’
‘To cure them.’
‘There is no cure.’
Cuthbert stared past him. ‘Yes, there is. I’ve witnessed many miracles on Lindisfarne.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘This is my second year. The local fishermen leave food for me and I sometimes take eggs from the seabirds. Last winter was hard, but now that summer is approaching, pilgrims will be returning to the island. Sometimes a dozen or more cross the causeway in a single day.’
‘Causeway?’
‘I forget. You don’t know the island. The causeway is a path exposed at low tide.’
‘You said nobody could reach the island by night.’
‘I said no one would sail here in the dark.’
Hero looked over his shoulder at the entrance. ‘The tide must be almost at its lowest now.’
‘But who would make such a crossing?’
‘Excuse me, I have to go.’ Hero stood. ‘We’re fugitives from the Normans. They’ll be here soon. For your own sake, you mustn’t tell them you’ve seen us.’ He remembered the bundle and held it out. ‘This is for you. It’s not much. Some bread and fish. A blanket. I’m sorry, I have to go.’
Cuthbert’s blessings followed Hero as he stumbled down the gully. On the shoreline he blundered into Raul and Richard. The German laughed.
‘That’ll teach you to follow strange voices in the night.’
‘He spat his vile humours over me,’ Richard cried.
‘Both of you shut up!’
In silence they rowed to the ship. Hero told Vallon about the causeway and nothing else. Cuthbert had descended with his lamp to the shore again. Vallon looked away from it into the dark sky.
‘The wind’s easing all the time. Raise the anchor.’
The crew strained over the oars, heading around the point. Cuthbert followed them along the shore as if to light their way. They had almost reached the tip of Lindisfarne when out from the mainland crept a column of flares, processing over the face of the sea like communicants bound for midnight mass.
‘Forgive my outburst,’ Richard said, brushing Hero’s shoulder. ‘I was shocked.’
Hero reached up and for a moment their fingers locked. ‘Of course I forgive you.’ He gave a long groan. ‘What an awful day it’s been.’
Cuthbert’s voice carried faintly across the water.
‘What’s he saying?’ Richard asked.
Hero choked back tears. ‘Benedicti sitis peregrini. Bless you, pilgrims.’
XIX
They scraped north for two more days and late on the second afternoon they nosed into the mouth of a wide firth, rounding a great plug of basalt almost hidden behind a blizzard of seabirds. Shearwater sailed through the birds’ fishing grounds. Boobies sheared the sky in their thousands, folding back their wings and plummeting like darts into the waves. Emerging from the storm, the company found themselves in a busy sea-lane. Edinburgh was only a short run down the southern shore of the firth. Vallon told Snorri to hold a northward course.
‘Ain’t we putting in at the capital?’ Raul asked. ‘We won’t find a better place to take on trade goods.’
‘The Normans will have an embassy there. If they find out we’ve landed, they’ll demand our arrest. With invasion threatening, the Scots won’t refuse them.’
‘Handing us over to the Normans ain’t going to stop them invading.’
‘I know, but the Scots will want to avoid any provocation,’ said Vallon. ‘Giving us up would be a sop that costs nothing.’
Raul wasn’t happy and vented his discontent to Wayland. ‘We ain’t going to make our fortunes by ducking every hazard.’
Although Wayland refused to be drawn, his own attitude to the voyage was beginning to sour. All they had left for food was bread and enough water for two cups daily. Conversation had dried up and Syth no longer sang as she worked. His skin itched and burned with saltwater sores.
By midnight they’d passed the firth’s northern point. On they sailed, steering by the light of a pared down moon. Early next morning, under a pastel sky, the weary crew rowed into the bishopric of St Andrews and tied up inside a breakwater.
Wayland had expected something grander and Raul was disgusted, complaining that the town didn’t even have a proper harbour. On a promontory north of the city, masons were at work on a church tower; otherwise, the only buildings more than one storey high were a few shingled houses on the waterfront. The rest of the settlement was a muddle of shaggy hovels.
Vallon and Raul rowed ashore with Snorri to find lodgings and sound out the prospects for trade. Wayland mooched on deck, watching the comings and goings on the quay. The port was used by traders from across northern Europe, and Shearwater’s arrival attracted little attention. Among the groups of Scots dressed in plaid were swaggering Norsemen wearing baggy breeches gathered at the knee.
It was afternoon before the shore party returned. They’d met with a representative of the civic governor who’d arranged accommodation for them in a house reserved for merchants. Vallon told the company that the governor had invited him to dine on the morrow, and that the outlook for trade was limited. At this season of the year there was little grain to be had. They might find some malt, and there was a sawmill five miles out of town where they could buy timber. Raul and Wayland would go there the day after tomorrow, when they’d rested.
The company transferred ashore, leaving Snorri and Garrick on board. Worn out by their voyage, the crew retired to bed early. Vallon had a room to himself at the top of the house. The others paired up according to ties of friendship or habit. Syth and the dog were segregated in the kitchen, a place overrun by rats that scrabbled in the straw and fought over the greasy cook pots. On the morning Wayland left for the sawmill, he found her curled asleep in the passage. Light from the door fell on her face. He studied it more closely than he’d dared do when she was awake, pulled her blanket over her shoulders, and joined Raul in the morning sunshine.
The sawmill was in a forest clearing that sloped down to a shallow loch. Raul knew his timber and proved a shrewd bargainer, rejecting the trees that the mill owner tried to fob off on him. This one had been felled too hard and had the shakes. That one was too knotty. Another was marred by a vein of soft brown pith. ‘It’s foxy,’ said Raul, and stared disgustedly at the surrounding pines. ‘Truth is, compared with Baltic wain
scot, none of this wood’s fit for anything but burning.’
When Raul had made his selection, Wayland helped lever the squared trunks on to a sledge. Bullocks dragged the load to a wagon waiting on the road. With time on his hands, he found a log of straight-grained ash and cleft it with a handaxe to make arrows. A boy approached and offered to sell him a creel of trout caught in the lochan that morning. They weighed three or four to a pound and Wayland wrapped them in moss and cooked them in embers for the midday meal. He and Raul ate them with bannocks by the waterside, then they just sat with their thoughts. A breeze swished through the treetops. Fish dimpled the surface of the loch. Across the water a lime-washed steading stood seated on its reflection. A man was chopping wood outside it, the sound of each blow not carrying until he’d raised the axe for the next stroke. Blue hills footed in shadow far to the west.
Raul nodded towards the cottage. ‘Think you and Syth would be happy there?’
‘Hm?’
‘You’ll be planning to settle down. Raise a family.’
Wayland was shocked. ‘It never crossed my mind.’
Raul gave his leftovers to the dog. ‘I wasn’t much older than you when I left home. Never stopped travelling since, never been to the same place twice. You get weary after a while.’
‘You’ll be able to settle with your share of the profits.’
‘Aye, I’ll find a resting place sooner or later.’ Raul stood up, clasped both hands above his head and stretched. ‘Ah, well. Mustn’t weaken.’
Wayland took a last look at the hills and followed him back to work.
They hiked into town under a benign sunset and picked their way down alleys that were little more than open drains. Ahead of them a lean sow and her litter of striped piglets slurped at a trickle of effluent. She raised her head and flared her snout. Wayland stopped and put his hand across Raul’s chest.
‘It’s only a piggy-wiggy,’ said Raul.
A moment later both of them were quick-stepping backwards before the sow’s grunting charge. They took a turn at random and went down the next lane.
‘What a shithole,’ Raul said when they reached the next muddy crossroads. He looked around him like a man planning an escape. ‘Where do you reckon a fellow might find a drink in this dump?’
‘Forget it. Vallon told us to return in good time.’
‘Just a cup to wash the sawdust from our throats.’
‘Not me.’
A man came out of a house and went off down the street. Raul ran after him, calling. Turning, he trotted backwards. ‘Sure you won’t come?’
Wayland shook his head and returned to the lodgings.
That evening Syth paused by his seat when she served him supper. He looked up. Their eyes met and held. She moved on and Wayland glanced around, certain that the others must have sensed the current that had passed between them.
Vallon returned very late from his appointment with the governor. The meeting had been cordial. The governor knew that the Normans were mustering on the border, and he was grateful for the intelligence that Vallon was able to provide about Norman tactics.
‘Will the Scots fight?’ Hero asked.
‘The governor doubts it. They’re too busy fighting each other.’
Vallon gave reassuring news about the state of affairs in the earldom of Orkney. After generations of blood feuding, the title had passed to two brothers called Thorfinnson. They’d been captured at Stamford Bridge, but had been well treated and harboured no animosity against the English or foreigners in general.
When he’d finished, Vallon looked around the company. ‘Where’s Raul?’
Wayland kept his eyes down.
‘I asked a question.’
‘We parted in the town at sunset.’
Vallon’s expression darkened but he said nothing more.
In the small hours Wayland was woken by drunken shouts. He raised himself on to his elbows. He heard a thud, followed by slurred oaths. Cursing, he got up and felt his way down to the street. Raul lay on his back outside the door. His drinking companions lurched away down the waterfront, their discordant song fading into the night. Wayland dragged Raul inside and propped him against the wall.
‘Ish’at you, Wayland? Why don’t you come and have a little drink with Raul?’
‘Vallon will skin you.’
Raul squinted up. ‘Fuck him.’
Wayland left him there and went back to bed. Next morning he woke him by hurling a bucket of water into his face. Raul lunged at the falconer, spluttering. Wayland stood his ground.
‘Vallon’s waiting for you on board.’
Raul tottered to the ship. Vallon stood on deck, his face stony, the rest of the company arraigned to hear his verdict. Raul, still besotted, brought himself to attention, chest out, head up, glazed and blood-veined eyes staring into space. Swaying slightly.
Vallon stepped up to him. ‘I’d flog you if your hide wasn’t thicker than your wits.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Shut up. Now I know why you’ve served in half the armies of Europe. You’re a disgrace. Shut up and listen because I won’t tell you again. One more lapse and I’ll discharge you without a penny. You can find your own way home.’ Vallon stepped back. ‘That’s a solemn oath. Understood?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘You can sweat off your hangover at the sawmill. Now get out of my sight.’
As Raul weaved away, Vallon took Wayland’s arm. ‘Look out for him. Make sure he’s back by sunset.’
Out at the timberyard, Raul seized the top handle of the pit saw and set to like a man possessed, sawing away until the woodman in the pit cried mercy and another replaced him. Raul bared his gap-toothed grin at Wayland. ‘Work hard, live hard. You’re a long time dead.’
The day had started warm and grew increasingly oppressive. The air stilled and the trees fell motionless to the tips of their branches. The loch settled into a sheet as flat as tin and not a single fish rose to kiss its surface. Southwards, the sky dulled and took on a coppery tinge.
Raul came over, wiping his brow on his sleeve. ‘We’d better knock off. If it storms like it’s fixing to storm, the road will be a mire by dark.’
Lightning quaked over the southern horizon as they lashed down the load. Thunder rolled, spooking the bullocks. Their driver had to goad them to keep them headed down the track. Wayland and Raul rode on top of the wagon, estimating their progress against the stain creeping across the sky. By the time the town came in sight, everything had taken on the spectral tones of a world in eclipse.
They’d reached the outskirts when a bolt of lightning blinded Wayland and a crash of thunder jangled his senses. The skies opened, the deluge falling plumb and the downpour so heavy that it obliterated the ground under a carpet of spray. The bullocks went mad and bucked off the road, dragging the cart into a field already turning into a lake. The waggoner jumped off to disentangle the traces. Wayland slid down to give a hand. The lightning was almost continuous, everything searing white between blinks of darkness.
The bullocks had made a cat’s cradle of their harness. Raul appeared at Wayland’s side and cut the beasts loose with half a dozen slashes of his knife. Off they careered, bucking into the storm with the waggoner in hopeless pursuit.
Raul laughed like a madman. ‘I know the place for us,’ he shouted, and ran sloshing through the flooded alleys.
Wayland caught up with him outside a hall hung with a taverner’s sign. ‘Don’t you ever learn?’
Raul held up both palms as a pledge of good behaviour. Runoff from the thatch cascaded onto their heads. Water swilled around their ankles. ‘We’ll leave as soon as the rain stops. My oath.’
He dived through the door. Another barb sparked to earth with an ear-splitting crackle. Wayland dashed water from his eyes and crossed the step into a dark and tranquil dive. An elderly dogsbody seated by the door rose and took their weapons, down to the knife in Raul’s hat. ‘Rules of the house,’ the German said. ‘Some r
ough customers cross this threshold.’ Wayland followed him closely, looking out for possible trouble. The devil’s chapels — that’s what his mother called ale houses. This den was large and reeked with peat smoke from a huge central hearth. By the light of tallow candles, Wayland made out a surprisingly large number of drinkers.
They called out greetings and grinned as Raul bellied up to the counter. The taverner was already setting up drinks with an expression of resignation. ‘I’ll say one thing for the Scots,’ Raul said. ‘They brew a good ale.’
They took their drinks to a bench by the fire. Wayland heeled off his shoes and stretched out his feet. His leggings began to steam. He felt pleasantly tired. The dog stretched out to toast its flanks.
‘That fire burns all year round,’ said Raul. ‘Ain’t gone out for a hundred years.’
‘I suppose this is where you got sozzled last night.’
Raul looked about to refresh his memory. He raised his cup to a group playing dice over by the wall. ‘See that Pictish galoot with the red hair? Goes by the name of Malcolm.’
Wayland saw a wild-looking individual who responded to Raul’s gesture by placing a protective hand over his drinking vessel. His companions laughed and slapped the table.
‘I wouldn’t want to cross that one,’ said Wayland.
‘I did just that. Him and me had a fearful stramash. He insulted me dreadful, called me a son of a whore, dog breath, pig’s pizzle. On and on, scarcely drawing breath and never repeating himself. Oh, he’s a fine bletherskate. Not that I understood his words exactly, but I got his meaning. Especially at the end when he hiked up his skirt and waggled his filthy hairy arse at me.’
Wayland goggled. ‘What did you do to upset him?’
‘A bet, and one that I won. You’d have been proud of me.’
Wayland blinked. ‘It’s a miracle we didn’t find you on a midden with your throat cut.’
‘I’d taken just enough ale to give my tongue wings. Every insult and slight that he dealt, I topped it. I won’t give you my speech word by word because I’ve forgotten it, but you’d have admired the way I capped my performance.’
Hawk Quest Page 26